


start of all things (that are left to do)

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22519489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: Sylvain is drunk.It was their first day back at the monastery from Conand Tower and the taste of blood and cold rain still lingers in his mouth. it was only after his fourth drink at the tavern in town that his tongue was too overwhelmed by burning alcohol to let him taste anything else.-After killing Miklan at Conand Tower, Sylvain decides alcohol is the best way to drown his grief. Dimitri thinks otherwise.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 199





	start of all things (that are left to do)

Sylvain is drunk. 

It wasn't his smartest decision, but he had made certain he was known for choosing to do the wrong thing. It was easier if the others thought he would just goof off, easier to not take things seriously. His decisions normally came with consequences, but he had never really minded those. 

Besides, it was their first day back at the monastery from Conand Tower and the taste of blood and cold rain still lingers in his mouth. it was only after his fourth drink at the tavern in town that his tongue was too overwhelmed by burning alcohol to let him taste anything else.

He makes his way back to the dorms as carefully as he can, which isn't all that careful. most of the monastery grounds are silent, the only noise his heavy footsteps on the cobbles as he stumbles through the gates. 

The lanterns that are tended to by monks and nun light his way as he follows the quickest path back to the dorms. He passes by the fishing pond, pausing to watch the reflection of the moon, rippling in the waters. 

He tilts his head up. There’s a few clouds in the sky, but the moon is still shining brilliantly. His eyes squint as he looks over the stars. Beautiful, in a way, he thinks.  
Perhaps he’d like them more if they weren’t starting to sway. 

Sylvain is _very_ drunk.

He tries to quiet his steps as he crosses in front of the greenhouse. He takes careful, measured steps up to the second floor of the dormitory. If he stomps too loudly, he knows he’ll wake the entire hall, and while most might just gripe silently, Ingrid will lecture him. Dimitri might, too, but Dimitri’s door is all the way down the hall, his last obstacle before he can reach the safety of his room. While most of the other had left him alone on their way back to the monastery, the prince’s gaze had followed him, brows pinched.  
Sylvain’s not in the mood for pity. 

He has half a moment to wonder, while he makes his way down the hall, steps quiet, if the goddess enjoys ruining his life. Sylvain already knows he’ll be burning once he dies, but he wishes that he could catch a break before he kicks the bucket.

Instead, as he lifts his gaze to chart how far he’s got left before his door, it’s to see none other than the Crown Prince standing outside his own dorm. He’s dressed mostly down for the night, in light sleep clothes, but he’s wearing boots. Even through his addled mind, Sylvain can see how tense he is, how furrowed his brow is as he scowls at the ground.  
Oh, Sylvain definitely doesn’t want to be here for this lecture.

He takes in a breath, steadying himself with a palm on the stone wall of the hall before he straightens. His steps are still wobbly, but he forces a smile onto his face.

“Evening, Your Highness,” he greets, keeping his voice soft lest he wake Felix. He tries to dip a bow, but when he feels his centre of gravity falter, he pulls back.

Dimitri looks up, startled. Sylvain didn’t think he had been _that_ quiet, but Dimitri must have been lost in his own thoughts to not have heard him. Sylvain takes the last few steps past Felix’s door, readying to brush past the prince and head to his own.

The prince has other plans. He moves, dropping his arms to his side as he looks over Sylvain. He’s certain he’s a mess. He had gotten warm in the tavern, had unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. He’s run his hands through his hair countless times, and he can’t seem to get the ground to stop walking.

Dimitri's face creases with worry. Sylvain can't tell if it's his usual emotion, or his alcohol fueled brain that causes the anger at the look. He was the oldest. He was supposed to worry about the others, wasn't he? That's how it had always been.

 _Sylvain_ had been the one to tend to the bumps and scrapes Ingrid got when she got too rowdy. He had been the one providing handkerchiefs and hugs for Felix’s tears. He had been the one to lead the others on adventures in the castle’s gardens, while Dimitri delighted in not having to be The Prince around his friends. 

“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s voice is careful, like he’s forcing himself to be gentle. “You were out late.”

Sylvain would laugh, if he wasn’t trying to unfurl the fists at his sides. His smile feels hollow as he meets the prince’s gaze. “Aren’t I always?”

Dimitri sighs. He looks away briefly before his shoulders set with something akin to determination. When he looks back to Sylvain, he lifts his jaw, the perfect _prince_. “I'm worried about you, Sylvain.” A pause, before he softly goes, “We all are."

“I don't need to hear this.” His mouth forms the words sloppily and he tries to push past Dimitri into his dorm, but the prince is a solid wall, moving to cut him off, and Sylvain's already off-kilter stance almost collapses. Dimitri catches him by the wrist, helping to steady him with his other hand on his shoulder before Sylvain can eat it in the middle of the hallway.

Once Dimitri is certain Sylvain won’t fall, he speaks. His hand is still wrapped around Sylvain’s wrist. "I am. . .not the best with comforting words," he tells him, voice soft. "But I want you to know that I am always here for you, should you need a willing ear. Ingrid and Felix as well. We care about you."

Sylvain snorts. "Cheap words, Highness. What's there to care about?"

He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. Dimitri's brows furrow more, his grip on Sylvain's wrist tightening just a bit more. Sylvain swallows thickly, the lingering taste of alcohol starting to fade as he recalls the tang of iron from blood.

 _His or Miklan's?_ he wonders. Which is he tasting?

He tugs at his arm. Dimitri drops him like he's been burned. Sylvain tries, again, to step past him to his room, but Dimitri is as stubborn as always. An immovable wall, never swayed by Sylvain’s honeyed words. Not that Sylvain’s coherent enough to form his honeyed words, anyway. 

"Sylvain—."

"Your Highness." Sylvain tries to sound stern, but his mind is still trying to push seeing his brother dead on the ground of the tower out of his mind. He runs a hand through his hair again. "Honestly, I just want to lie down. We're going to wake Felix at this rate."

Dimitri's eyes dart down the hall, towards Felix's door. His lips part, as if he's going to speak, but Sylvain catches something in his gaze when he brings it back to him that, had he not been drunk, he might've been able to interpret. Even so, Dimitri nods his acquiescence and steps aside.

Sylvain breathes a sigh of relief, opening his door. He's readying to tell the prince good night when Dimitri, _Dimitri_ , slides in past him. Sylvain blinks at him, staring as Dimitri heads to his desk and sits in his chair.

"What are you. . .?" he trails off, confused, but his muscle memory kicks in and he pushes the door shut behind him, just staring at the prince.

"You said you wanted to lie down," Dimitri states. "I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable for the duration of this talk."

Sylvain's brows furrow and he moves, one foot in front of the other. He shakes his head, regrets it, and plops down onto the bed edge. "We're not talking about this, Your Highness."

He leans forward, moving to get his boots unlaced. His hands feel clumsy, clunky, but he gets his fingers to cooperate enough to loosen the knot.

"You killed your _brother_ , Sylvain. You need to talk to someone about what you feel."

His hands stop. 

Sylvain feels nothing. He tells himself he feels nothing. But it’s not true. He feels too many things, all at once. Dread. Cold from a mountaintop, snow surrounding him as Miklan’s form disappears into darkness. Stone under his broken and cracked nails as he tried to claw his way out of a well. 

_Nothing,_ he tells himself. He feels nothing.

He opens his mouth, readying to tell Dimitri that, but he stops. He tastes blood and rain in his mouth. His hands are shaking. The knot he had loosened isn’t loose enough, and he can’t get his boot unlaced. His vision’s blurring.

 _I drank too much,_ he thinks, words twisting and slurring in his mind. _It wasn't enough,_ he decides, as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. All he can taste is iron, and copper, and salt.

Salt?

Dimitri makes a noise. He sounds like a wounded animal. Sylvain tries to look up from his boots. He’s surprised to see the prince's form is blurry, and when he blinks, the water in his eyes falls down his cheeks. It clears his vision for just the briefest moment, just long enough to see Dimitri's hands reach out to cup his cheeks, thumb brushing his tears away.

Sylvain's mouth is open. He can’t see Dimitri clearly. He wants to hide, wants to run, but he can’t move. All he can do is lurch forward, burying his face in Dimitri's stomach as his arms wind around the prince's waist, clutching at his sleep shirt.

Dimitri's hands, rough with calluses, but gentle— _gentle_ in a way Sylvain didn’t deserve. They run through his hair, detangling wild strands, fingers trailing down his shoulders, comforting in a way Sylvain had decided he hadn’t needed when he made his choice to head to the tavern in town.

“I hated him.” He breathes the words out between ugly sobs, breathes them out into Dimitri’s shirt. “I hated him, and I killed him.” 

Dimitri’s breath rushes from him. “You did what you had to do,” he says. 

Sylvain hiccups a laugh, shaking his head against Dimitri’s stomach. “What I _had to do,_ ” he echoes, miserable. 

He draws back, enough to look at Dimitri. The prince meets his gaze steadily. An immovable wall. His fingers are still twisting the back of his shirt and he shakily releases his death grip on the fabric. He can’t stand the thought of letting Dimitri go completely; his fingers drag around his waist as he brings them to Dimitri’s front, trying to steady his breathing. Dimitri moves his hand from Sylvain’s shoulder, curling his fingers around his hand to bring it to his chest. He flattens Sylvain’s palm out, holding him there, the steady beat of his heart thumping underneath. 

“Breathe with me.” His voice is soft, but it’s a command all the same, the edges tinged with sternness. Sylvain feels Dimitri’s chest swell with a breath. Takes in one the same length. He exhales when Dimitri does. They repeat that until Sylvain’s sniffling as stopped. Dimitri holds his hand to his chest still as Sylvain brings his other to his face, wiping at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. 

“I’m drunk,” he admits, as if Dimitri hadn’t been able to tell from the moment he saw his uneven gait at the end of the hall.

“I know.” Dimitri steps back, letting Sylvain go, and while he wants to reach out, all he can do is drop his arms to rest his elbows on his knees. 

Sylvain watches his fingers flex into fists, unfurling them to lift his palms up. He can almost see the blood splattered on his hands, an impossible thing, since he had been wearing gloves when he—

_When he—_

“Sylvain.” 

He doesn’t look up. Dimitri sighs. Before the prince can speak, he manages the weakest words he feels he’s ever spoken.

“All I can taste is blood.”

His fingers curl back into fists, nails digging into his palms. He feels that he’s cried out all the water in his system, otherwise the burn behind his eyes would be more productive.  
Dimitri pauses. He takes a step forward, into Sylvain’s view. Hands curl around his own, forcing Sylvain to finally meet his gaze again. Dimitri’s eyes search his, always brilliantly blue, always brilliantly earnest. Sylvain’s eyes dart down to his mouth when his lips part, but before he can even move, Dimitri makes a soft noise. His eyes swing up in time to see the prince look away.

“Lie back,” he murmurs. “I’ll get your boots.”

He plops back against the bed. He’s miscalculated how far he has to go, because it feels like an eternity before his shoulders hit the mattress below him. His ceiling swirls overhead, candlelight and starlight creating shadows that twist and turn into things he’d rather not see. 

Closing his eyes isn’t that much better.

The crown prince of Faerghus, the prince Sylvain’s life is sworn to just as a citizen of the Holy Kingdom, takes his boots off for him. He’s methodical, calculated. Sylvain can feel his hands carefully finish unlacing the boot Sylvain had attempted to get off before he lifts Sylvain’s leg up by the calf and slides it off. 

“Dimitri.”

The prince pauses. Sylvain belatedly realises he’s addressed him by name, something he hasn’t done since Sylvain was eleven and had gotten a scolding for not giving nine year old Dimitri the _respect he deserved._ Sylvain pushes himself on one elbow, still unsteady, and meets the startled eyes of the prince.

Sylvain takes a moment to realise Dimitri’s cheeks are flushed red.

“Ah—.” Dimitri hastily looks away, ducking his head. Despite his golden hair falling forward to create a shield, Sylvain can see the blush crawling to his ears as he goes to take care of his other boot. “My apologies, am I being too rough?”

 _Dimitri._ His lips form the syllables silently as the prince works on getting the laces undone. Sylvain likes how it feels in his mouth, on his lips. _Dimitri._

He opens his mouth to tell Dimitri that it’s fine, he didn’t actually need help with his shoes, but the only word that comes out is a whispered, “Stay.”

Dimitri’s head snaps up, and he tugs so hard that the lace on Sylvain’s boot snaps with it. For a moment, they’re both silent, staring at the dangling string in Dimitri’s hand before Sylvain breaks it with a rough laugh, falling back onto the bed. He throws an arm over his eyes, laughs bubbling up despite himself. Dimitri tries to stammer out apologies, but Sylvain reaches out with his free hand, waving it in the air.

“C’mere. Come up here.”

“Sylvain, I—.”

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Had he not been under the influence, he’s certain those words wouldn’t have left his mouth. He’s certain a lot of words wouldn’t have left his mouth that had. “Stay with me, Dimitri. For tonight. _Please._ ”

He has no idea what it is that does it. Maybe it’s the please. Maybe it’s how absolutely devastated he sounds. There’s only a moment’s pause before Dimitri gives a soft, nearly inaudible, “Alright. For tonight.”

Sylvain’s boot comes off. He pushes himself back so he’s properly laying on the bed, arm still thrown over his eyes. There’s twin thumps of Dimitri’s own shoes being removed before the mattress dips beside him. 

He moves his arm to watch as Dimitri settles. The bed isn’t large—Sylvain shifts so he’s on his side, back pressed to the wall leaving Dimitri enough room to get comfortable. He pulls the blankets up over them, and Sylvain feels useless. 

A familiar feeling, he thinks, but he’s exhausted, and drunk, and feels like he’s cried his soul out. 

When he opens his eyes, Dimitri’s staring at him. There’s mild concern in the prince’s stare, but something else. Something that Drunk Sylvain can’t interpret. Loose strands of blond hair have fallen over his face. Sylvain lifts his hand before he can process what he’s doing. 

His fingers trail first along his neck, then his jaw. Dimitri’s gaze flicks to the corner of his eyes, watching Sylvain’s hand. He brushes Dimitri’s hair back, tucking it behind his ear. Warmth follows the path his fingertips take as Dimitri blushes. His lips part. Sylvain tries to speak, but can’t form words. His eyes go down when Dimitri’s tongue darts out. A nervous habit, to wet his lips. 

Sylvain’s not sure if he leans in first, or if Dimitri does. When their lips brush, it’s the softest, most chaste kiss Sylvain’s ever had. 

Dimitri’s sharp inhalation makes him draw back. His fingers are still on Dimitri’s jaw and he licks his lips, watching blue eyes trace the movement.  
He tastes chamomile. Dimitri’s favourite tea. The first thing since the alcohol had burned his tongue that he’s been able to taste besides blood and tears. 

“Good night, Your Highness,” he murmurs. 

Dimitri exhales, shakily. Nods. “Good night, Sylvain.”

.

When Sylvain wakes up in the morning to sunlight pooling in through his dorm windows, an unhelpful brightness for his pounding headache, he’s alone.

As he pushes himself up, he half wonders if he dreamt last night. He knows he’s not going to class, not like this, and with how goddess-damned _bright_ the sun is, it’s already well into morning lecture. Still, he could use a bath, and he feels like he could drink an entire pitcher of water. 

He pulls clothes out of his wardrobe, squinting whenever the angle of the sun lands on his face. Getting to the bathhouse is going to be nothing short of agony.  
He snorts at the thought as he opens his door, ironic enough to make him feel some semblance of humour. He’s stops short when his eyes dart down as he steps through the doorway.

On the ground outside is a basket. He bends, rubbing a hand over his forehead to try to soothe his headache. Piled inside is a book, some wrapped up baked treats—there’s even a bottle of cologne. Tucked between the bottle and the book is a note. He plucks it out, tucking his clothes under his arm as he grabs the basket in his other hand.  
He unfolds it as he carries the basket inside, his head still pounding but the words at least easy enough to process. Annette and Mercedes had gathered some things for him, with assistance from Ashe and Dedue. Sylvain smiles slightly, moving to set the basket on his desk, when he sees another note. 

This one is short, only a few sentences, signed hastily. 

_Sylvain,  
I know you’ll want to spend most of your morning sleeping. I’ll let the professor know you’ll be missing class. Mercedes and Annette have gotten you a gift as well. If you need anything else from any of us, do not hesitate to ask.  
Yours,  
Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd _

Sylvain reads the signature over, and over, until his throat tells him he really, truly needs to go get some water. 

He huffs a small laugh as he folds the note up, tucking it away next to the basket on his desk. “Mine, huh?” His voice is raspy, raw. It’s a good thing no one else is around to hear it. 

_Yours,_ he repeats, heading out into the hall.

He doesn’t want to admit how nice that sounds.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on ao3. I'm pretty sure the only reason I'm actually posting this is because I'm slightly fevered and it's late enough that I can't talk myself into being embarrassed.


End file.
